Scabior's Protection
by Dirty.Things
Summary: Back after five years! A mature, adults-only story. It begins with Hermione and Scabior meeting in the woods, where terrible things happen. It will become an epic journey in which characters band together, betray each other, murder, forgive, and fight for a little bit of peace and happiness in a newly war-torn world. Total story is 100 chapters.
1. Going Somewhere?

**Hello, I'm R, and I wrote the (second ever!) Scabior fanfiction "Scabior's Protection" several years ago. It was removed for having inappropriate content. I have since performed significant edits, though I fully understand that it may be removed again. I will be putting this online at .com (slash) scabiorsprotection, so if you want to follow the story, please save the link. If it gets removed from FF again, it will be up there. Chapters will be posted as they are edited.**

Chapter One

Going Somewhere?

It was a quiet and unhurried Tuesday morning when a branch broke free with a snap and fell to the ground. The noise echoed through the air of the forest, and a pair of birds flew out from a nearby bush. Hermione whirled around, wand at the ready, but saw nothing besides trees rising from frozen ground to bitter sky. Maple bark, oak bark, peeling, white birch bark. Stones, leaves. She saw the landscape and the trees and the stillness of the early morning, and that was all.

Ron was gone. Harry... Well, Harry was gone, too, in his own way. Sitting, staring, looking out like there was something there that only he could see. It was as if the world was his widow's walk, and nothing Hermione could say or do could bring him back down. He was in love with his own suffering. She was suffocating from the silence.

A breath of fresh air would clear her mind, she thought; it could bring her some peace, anyway. She had come to the Forest of Dean as a child. It had seemed like a good decision, safe and familiar. Until now. It was odd, really—nothing in particular had changed, but something about the forest seemed different.

A twig cracked sharply into two pieces.

Hermione turned abruptly. Her eyes, though tired, widened in shock. A man, dark and wild and crackling with fierce energy, was staring intently at her. No, wait, that wasn't right. Not at her. He was staring _through_ her. He brought a gloved hand to her wards, not seeing the velveteen shiver of her magic. Would he feel it? He sniffed in an agonizingly deliberate manner, and Hermione felt fear begin to curl around her legs like a cat. It was her perfume. He could smell her perfume.

Something glinted in the man's eyes, but he turned away.

"Come on, you lot. I thought I heard something, but... Let's move along."

Hermione suddenly became aware that the man was not alone—there were four or five others with him. In her fright, she had only seen him. The men walked off, their boots crunching over the dry leaves of the forest.

Barely breathing, Hermione stood completely still until she was alone once again. She had recognized one of them; it was Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf. There was no doubt that they were dangerous.

A moment passed, and then another, and the cold grip of terror loosened on her slender frame. She exhaled. Her shoulders relaxed. And then—

"Going somewhere?"

She saw it with her peripheral vision, but making any sort of movement seemed impossible. A hand, calloused and dirty, curled around her mane of hair. Hermione trembled as the hand slowly drifted towards her skin and wrapped around her neck, its rough thumb rubbing unseen caresses at the base of her neck.

"Don't move. Don't scream." The man slowly turned her to face him, gripping her chin with tight fingers. He looked down and took in her obvious vulnerability, and a small smile laced his face. "Such a pretty, pretty thing... Now dear, why don't you tell me your name?"

Hermione said nothing. After a moment, the hand around her chin constricted.

"Penelope... Penelope Clearwater," she whispered. _Be like a stone_ , she told herself. _Let him squeeze all he wants. Give him nothing._

The man smirked. "For some reason, I don't think that's true. Why don't you—" His eyes caught her deftly fingering the wand poking out of her sleeve. "Oh, that won't do." As his hand reached for her wand, Hermione brought her knee up, striking him soundly between his legs; her assailant made a sound of pain and she twisted away, running, flitting through trees, the man's rapid breathing only moments behind her.

 _One foot in front of the other_ , she thought frantically. _Get to the tent, get to Harry, get to safety, get to—_

"Ahh!"

The man cut her off, grabbing her arm and pinning her against a tall birch tree. He pushed his hard body against hers. One arm held her thin wrists above her head and the other pressed into the small of her back as the stranger buried his face into her neck and inhaled, his senses filling with Hermione's soft fragrance. The only thing more obvious than her fear was his arousal.

"Who are you? What do you want? I'm a half-blood! A half—" Hermione was silenced as her mouth was invaded; she felt the prickle of his stubble and her chin was wet. No, this wasn't right, this wasn't right at all; she was supposed to kiss Ron, supposed to feel his smooth skin, supposed to feel warm and right and _oh, God,_ what was that? A hard length pressed against her stomach. A stalwart atheist for the past six years of her life, she began to pray.

With one strong arm, the stranger ripped her blouse and exposed her bare skin. A second tug, and the blouse was gone completely. Hermione's skin prickled at the sudden onset of the cold air, and against her will, each nipple hardened. Her breath escaped her mouth in white puffs of steam. She knew what was going to happen to her; she would be used, hurt, perhaps even murdered, and there was nothing she could do about it without her wand. Hermione as she had existed up until this point would be gone—and Harry? Ron? What would they do without her? What _could_ be done? _Wait! There might be an option, a lesser of evils—_

"Wait! Wait, please," she cried, and the man withdrew, his hard gaze transfixed upon her. "It doesn't have to be like this. Please, don't make it like this. Let me show you," she pleaded.

The man paused. This was new. The girl was not; he'd seen many like her—but yes, _this_ was new. Those wide, doe-like eyes beseeched him, and he could taste his power over the girl on the tip of his tongue. He had found that sex, whether obtained with gold or violence, was sweet. This new dynamic, though—this was positively saccharine.

Hermione shivered as her captor released her hands. She swallowed. Suddenly, she felt regret that he had granted her proposal—now she was partly responsible for what she would do and whatever would happen. And yet she had no other option, not if she wanted a chance of surviving.

Trembling, she raised her hand and placed it at his stomach, curling her fingers softly around the thin, dark fabric of his shirt and sliding the cloth upward, revealing his taut abdomen. As Hermione slid the jacket off of the man's shoulders, she could hear his breath quicken.

His blue eyes flickered to her simple cotton brassiere in a silent command and she ducked her head, cheeks tingling with heat as she unhooked the strap and let it fall. She stood almost defensively, her shoulders squared and chin held high as if daring him to find fault with her.

The man slowly brought his hand to one firm breast, feeling the weight of it in his palm and dragging his thumb over her peaked nipple. A small grin graced his face as Hermione's breath caught, and he pinched her, hard, rolling her nipple in his calloused fingers. Hermione lifted her face into the air, eyes closed as the strange man manipulated her breasts.

He took the opportunity to pull his shirt over his head and then draw her form against his, pressing his body against hers. Hermione gasped, and the man cupped her face as he descended upon her, his lips claiming hers in a powerful, almost painful kiss. Hermione was ashamed to realize that she was pushing against him without the guidance of his nimble hands. She had always been guiltily excited by "ravishing" scenes in the tawdry romance novels she charmed to look like the histories of various magical landmarks (thereby ensuring Harry and Ron would never use them as anything more than doorstops and paperweights), but she had never assumed that it would—or could—ever happen to her. As often as she had fantasized of being those heaving-chested women being dominated by dashing pirates, mysterious lords, and exotic sheikhs, she had never really comprehended what it would actually like to be overwhelmed like this. It was different when _her_ life, not the life of some busty, fictional heroine, was at risk.

It was his forceful grip on her waist that signaled that it was time, and together, they sank to the ground. Despite the shock of the half-thawed ground, their combined heat spread to the leaves around them, thin layers of frost melting and coating their bodies in a soft, wet shell. One hand found her smooth thigh and pushed up her skirt. The man hooked his fingers in the band of her panties and pulled them down. He propped himself on his knees, taking in the sight of the girl, spread and bare, before him. This was new not just to her but to him as well—a willing woman (or as close to one as he had gotten recently): untouched, pure, and all for him. It touched his sense of pride that she had so much to offer _him_ (and yes, he knew that he was despicable). He could and _would_ take everything from her.

The girl was flushed, the pink tinge to her cheeks providing lovely contrast to her milky, white skin, and her breasts rose and fell sharply. Her fingers dug into the earth around her. The man leaned forward and lowered his mouth to her neck, placing on her shivering skin one kiss after another. He continued his way down with long, open kisses to her breasts, flicking his tongue over her stiff nipples. As he sucked on her breast, Hermione gasped, and a moan escaped her mouth. He trailed his lips down her stomach, growling softly as he reached her small patch of auburn curls. He parted her lips and pressed his mouth against her core. He pulled her closer, his tongue tracing patterns on her most vulnerable places as the girl fought every urge to buck and bring herself nearer to her captor.

Feeling triumphant, he assaulted her with his mouth. His ragged breath mingled with her cries. He leaned forward and cupped her mound with his hand, pressing into her and sliding his fingers over her slick skin. As she shuddered into his hand, he drew himself up and placed his lips against hers. He took her small, delicate hand in his and guided it to the catch of his pants; Hermione unbuttoned it slowly, her eyes never leaving his. Her blood thrummed angrily, desperately in her veins.

The stranger paused and caressed the side of her body with his fingertips. As he watched the girl shiver underneath him, he moved forward, placing the tip of his cock at her entrance. He slowly pushed into her, and she felt a sharp, agonizing pain. Together, they looked down and watched as he sunk into her, filling her up. He pulled out, and Hermione nearly cried out at the sudden loss, only to be entered once more. He thrust rather deliberately and she groaned; it still hurt as much as the first invasion, but it was accompanied by a sensation of fulfillment that she had never before experienced. The pace was nearly excruciating, and her fingernails bit deep into the skin of his back. His body lowered inch by inch until he was pressed against her, his lips murmuring unintelligible desires against her neck as he moved, a man undone, in and out of her.

Though she tried her best to maintain her stoic silence, the sensation became too much to take. It built up in her in the most strange way, starting with a slow, sweet burn that began where the man's body met hers; her toes began to wiggle as jolts of what seemed like electricity shot down her legs. Every muscle in her lower body seemed to tense as the sensation rolled higher. Her breasts, her legs, her thighs, her lips—everything on her body she had previously taken for granted was aflame, and for the first time, she realized how good it felt to burn.

It wasn't until she felt two strong hands encircling her throat that her fevered eyes opened. She began to struggle, but the man leaned over, grip stilled as he whispered into her ear. " _Trust me_."

Trust _him_? This dangerous, dark man who had done _this_ to her? And yet as their bodies joined, she felt something between them, some frisson or spark comprised of so many things, she could spend a year describing them and still not capture everything. Trust him? Yes, she decided. She would trust him. Her survival depended on living long enough to find a way to fight. Her eyes closed once more, expression calm, her fingers stroking the very arms of the hands that surrounded her tender throat.

The man looked down. The girl _did_ trust him. It was sad—pathetic. And yet he found himself pressing down with utmost gentleness. The girl's eyes fluttered as her orgasm built and she struggled for breath. He counted—one, two, three. He saw the wave overtake her, the momentary blindness in her gaze, the all-over shudder that encompassed every inch of her body. As her climax died, his built and ended just as quickly. Together, their muscles relaxed and the chill of the morning air settled in around them. His hands were still at her throat—he didn't have to let go. He wouldn't normally let go at this point. She was obviously lying about her name. She had something to hide. But for reasons he could not explain—or did not _want_ to explain—this time, he did.

Their breath drifted and mingled in the air. The euphoria was over, and the harsh reality of what had just happened set in. Hermione tried desperately not to think about the blood between her legs or the arms of the strange man wrapped around her waist. The pain she felt—the pain he had forced her to feel—now unaccompanied by pleasure, radiated uncomfortably in places she didn't know could hurt.

The man's hand slid over her stomach and gently massaged her abdomen in an intimate caress. Hermione's eyes opened as the man spoke. "What's your name? Your real name."

She paused. She could lie, but he still had her wand. What would the punishment be for lying? "Hermione," she whispered, and the man's hand stilled upon her skin. _Fuck._

"Granger?" he inquired, and he felt rather than saw her small nod. He grimaced, and then leaned on his elbow to look over her shoulder as he debated his next words. The girl was worth more than her weight in gold, and yet... _She's far more beautiful than they said she was_ , he said to himself, and then banished the thought. He knew she was traveling with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. If he could catch them all, he'd be more than well-off; he'd be wealthy. Or, of course, he could take the quick payout now, torture the information out of her—

He glanced down as the girl twisted her head to better see him. Dirt and scraps of decayed leaves dappled her shoulders; her uncontrollable curls were in disarray, and smudged streaks of coral-colored blood were smeared on her thighs. _Gorgeous_. And with that, his decision was made. "Hermione, there's something you might find helpful in your travels. The Dark Lord—"

In the near distance, there was a sound, and suddenly, the man was on his feet and dressing. Hermione tried to sit up, only to be pushed back toward the ground. "What are you doing?" she demanded, but the man held his hand over her mouth as the voices of the rest of the Snatchers drifted towards them. He suddenly grabbed dirt from the ground and began to rub it onto Hermione's nude body as the girl struggled to speak.

"Hermione Granger, we will meet again. Lay down and be still or you will not like the consequences."

She gave him a searching look and then sprawled onto the ground as if dead. "Good girl," her quietly crooned as his men ambled into sight. He stood up and shrugged his coat on nonchalantly.

"Who's that, boss?" one of the men called out.

"Penelope Clearwater," he said, nudging her with his boot. "She _was_ a Half-Blood, but now she's an _All_ -Dead. Get it? _All dead_?" He paused for a moment to allow his comrades to laugh. It wasn't funny, but he was the leader, and he'd make them laugh if he wanted to.

"Anyway, guess I got a little carried away. Go on and look for her companions; she can't be alone. Maybe we can find some more lovely girls to keep us company tonight, eh?" He offered his team a roguish wink, and most of them laughed appreciatively, moving away from their leader and the seemingly dead girl.

When the rest of his Snatchers were far enough away, he looked down. "Don't say the Dark Lord's name. It calls to us." His gaze followed the path of his men. "It calls to me."

Hermione blinked, and tears of relief, of fear, of shame, and of sorrow filled her wide eyes. She had so many questions. Was he letting her go? Was this a trap to find the others? What would she do now that this had happened to her? So little time, and yet one question came to her lips. "What is your name?" she asked.

The man paused before looking back. "Scabior," he murmured. "My name is Scabior. I'm the leader of the Snatchers, and the next time I catch you, I might not let you go." And with that, he walked away, himself full of questions.


	2. Her Helplessness, Her Hatred

Chapter Two

Her Helplessness, Her Hatred

On shaking legs, Hermione stood up and retrieved her clothing and her wand. It took her the better part of twenty minutes, but she managed to find the edge of the forest and the river at which she, Harry, and Ron had been bathing and drinking. She sunk into the ice-cold water, instantly chilled to the bone. She had barely started, and was already beginning to grow numb. She slowly ran her hands over her skin, rinsing off the dirt and blood. As she worked, her pace began to quicken, and she scrubbed herself roughly, the water around her billowing with clouds of dirt and mud. _Mud_ —was that all she was to him? To any of them? How could someone think so lowly of another person that they could rape or murder them?

She already knew the answer. It was in the water around her; it was in her body, flowing through her veins, an outdated concept with a name just for _things_ like her. Mudblood. _Mudblood!_ The injustice of it stung more fiercely than the pain—how would she ever forget it? How would she heal? She had been bare. She had been stripped. She had been naked in so many ways.

" _Vacuus Uterus_ ," she murmured. She had been on birth control to defeat the acne that had been plaguing her since she entered puberty, but life on the run meant that she could miss a pill any day. The last thing she needed was to carry the child of an evil man.

She tried not to think about the orgasm. _It doesn't mean I wanted it,_ she told herself. _I'm in control of what I want and don't want._ Her hands shook as she redressed. After a long look at the river around her, she forced herself to make her way back to the tent, still feeling dirty.

}{}{

To Harry Potter's credit, he hadn't missed the expression of sadness and confusion that had been on Hermione's face for weeks. It had lingered there like a drawn-out winter since Ron left. When his friend entered the tent, he saw that the expression hadn't changed. However, now her eyes with rimmed with red and her limbs trembled. Her lips were uncharacteristically dark against her pale skin, and her wet hair hung limply around her shoulders.

"Merlin, 'Mione! Did you go for a swim? It's _freezing_ outside." He stepped forward and wrapped his blanket around his friend's shoulders, fluffing her hair with it as if Hermione was a child fresh out of the bath. The girl smiled weakly and hugged him a bit too tight for comfort. She knew she could never tell him. It wasn't because he would blame her or think less of her. It was because he wouldn't understand, and trying to explain it would hurt.

After a long, intense second, she released him.

"Come on, Harry, let's get some sleep. I want to be productive tomorrow."

"Hermione, you're always productive," Harry said, searching his mind for the right combination of words to put a smile back on his friend's face. "And smart! Very smart. Good with books. And, er, stuff. Brains. You've got good ones."

Hermione fixed him with a wry expression and then shook her head. "You're sweet, Harry. Good night." With that, she opened the catch to her room and then softly padded to the single bed inside. She laid down, trying desperately to think of anything but the hands of a strange man, anything but his fingertips dancing lightly over her skin and feelings she wished that she could lock away in a little box and cast into the river.

Both of them were asleep when the stranger stopped by the entrance of the tent. He lifted a hand as if to part the tent and enter, but paused and then turned away, retreating into the trees until he was engulfed in shadow.

}{}{

 _Fenrir would have been a beast or a half-man even if he had never been a werewolf,_ Scabior mused as the werewolf ripped apart some unfortunate traveler that had happened to come by their camp with his family. They had been looking for news of the strange lights they had seen in the forest, and found death. The man screamed, and Scabior looked away, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it with a blue flame conjured from the tip of his wand. Muggles were worthless. _Good for cigarettes, though. And iPods,_ he thought idly. He did rather like iPods, having confiscated several from campers and hikers unlucky enough to cross the Snatchers' paths. Unfortunately, he didn't understand that they needed to be charged, and a veritable graveyard of Apple products had begun littering the wake of the Snatchers' migratory camp.

"Oi, is that a Muggle... What-do-they-call it, cigarine or something?" Antoine Casgrove, a fellow Snatcher, sidled up to him and nodded at the unassuming white cylinder.

"It's called a cigarette, Antoine, and unless you decide to try one out for yourself, don't bother judging me. These things are darker than half the spells your _mummy_ taught you," Scabior drawled airily, his fingers flicking ash from the cigarette into the air.

"You'd have to ask her about that. If you had a death wish, anyway. An' I was just tryin' to make conversation," Antoine said good-naturedly. With a bone-popping stretch, he brought his arms up over his head and then settled back. A companionable silence arose between them, and Scabior once more found himself lost in thought.

He took a drag and blew the smoke out of his mouth in a white, hot burst. The girl wasn't even a muggle; she was a Mudblood, an abomination. More importantly, she was worth almost as much gold as the boy was. He knew two things: where she slept, and that she wouldn't be there much longer. She was ripe for the picking, and the boy, too. For the first time in years, Scabior wished his father were alive. The old man's face when he saw the contents of Scabior's vault would have been priceless.

And yet Scabior couldn't stop thinking about her soft brown eyes. They were luminous, really, and speckled with bits of gold, framed by long, dark lashes. Her eyes were her best feature. Her nose was nice, too, dainty. Her lips weren't particularly full; the top one was rather thin. He liked that, though. She had a small chin and a heart-shaped face. It gave the impression that she was nothing but eyes, deep and transfixing. _Transfixing,_ he thought idly. _That's a good word for it._

He jerked then, quite suddenly, and knocked his fist into the lit tip of his cigarette. "Fuck! Fuck," he said. A small black spot marked his hand, but his biggest concern was the odd tug he felt somewhere in his gut. It was something slick and disgusting to him, though the closest word that could be used to describe it would be something like _tenderness._

 _Think of the gold, mate,_ he urged himself. Piles of gold, mountains of gold, handfuls of gold, spilling from his outstretched hands and into a Gringotts vault just for him... Specks of gold in her eyes. The feel of them together. _Shit._ He flicked the cigarette again and watched the ash tumble through the air before losing itself in the forest.

}{}{

 _"They are knocking now upon your door_  
 _They measure the room, they know the score._  
 _They're mopping up the butcher's floor_  
 _of your broken little hearts, oh children..."_

Hermione glanced up, her thoughts derailed, and looked into Harry's eyes before placing her hand in his palm and allowing him to bring her to her feet. With a small, shy smile, he moved his body, and she moved with him.

 _"Forgive us now for what we've done,_  
 _It started out as a bit of fun,_  
 _Here, take these before we run away,_  
 _the keys to the Gulag..."_

He twirled and then she twirled, and they spun around the candlelit tent like dandelions in the wind, flickering and spinning and swirling with abandon. Harry's arm crept around her—

 _She crumpled to the ground and Scabior's body followed her, cocooning her from the cold._

She dipped back, her hair swinging behind her. She smiled, and Harry grinned, propelling her forward—

 _The man ran his fingers around her face and throat, leaving trails of blood._

The boy swung her back, emerald eyes appreciating the skirt twirling around the girl's legs—

 _His fingers released her throat._

She spun—

 _And he kissed the side of her neck gently._

 _"O children,_  
 _Lift up your voice, lift up your voice-_  
 _Children, rejoice,_  
 _rejoice."_

The two danced, holding onto each other—

 _"Hey, little train! Wait for me!_  
 _I was held in chains, but now I'm free!_  
 _I'm hanging in there, don't you see?_  
 _In this process of elimination..."_

 _Kissing, flashes of light, his hands on her, trembling; they were both trembling, his hair brushing her face as his lips met hers and the heat from their bodies spread warmth through the ground, warmth, so much warmth pooling inside of her, the kiss, the kiss... Her traitorous body! Her terrible weakness! Her loss! Her helplessness! HER HATRED!_

The music stopped. Harry performed a tiny bow, and with that, the moment was over. Hermione walked over and switched off the radio. She felt hollow.

 _It wasn't my fault,_ she told herself quietly. _I didn't do anything wrong._

Later, as she sat on the edge of her bed, she felt an overwhelming gratitude for the tiny room with the canvas walls and ceiling. This had been her parents' tent for when they went camping. It had been here before, in the Forest of Dean, and though she had packed it only for convenience, she found herself appreciating even the tiniest connection to her childhood. She was also glad for the privacy. She needed to be alone, and Harry, as much as she loved him, assumed responsibility for everything around him, and he would not understand that there was no way that he could not be the cause of her tears.


	3. Nothing But Sky

Chapter 3

Nothing But Sky

Outside the flickering lights of the tent, snow drifted in aimless spirals. Inside, Hermione laid, awake and with eyes open, staring at the pitched ceiling of the tent. A book rested on her stomach, heavy and reassuring.

Harry was out. He was probably sulking, or thinking, or missing Ginny, or whatever it was that he did in the silence of the forest. Hermione loved him; Harry was like the brother that she'd never had, but being stuck in the same tent in the same forest day after day had the same effect on each of them: they were tired, and claustrophobic, and irritable. So Hermione did not begrudge Harry's late-night wanderings. _If only Ron would come back_ , she thought, _maybe he'd have someone to talk to._ Obviously, there were things they couldn't share with each other. "Ron," she whispered. "Harry needs you. _We need you."_

She smiled slightly as she remembered the dance. Ginny was lucky. Harry possessed a natural sweetness that came out at the most unexpected moments. As for Ginny, well, Ginny was a bit of a dud, as far as Hermione could tell. _Who else could write to Voldemort for an entire semester and not realize they're talking to the most evil wizard in history?_

She didn't want to admit it, but to some extent, she blamed the Weasleys in general for Ginny's empty-headedness. She liked Arthur very much. It was impossible to dislike the man. Bill seemed nice. Sensible. But the twins irritated her—never serious, always joking, and often at the cost of a smooth lesson or study period. Molly had never been as welcoming to her as she had been to Harry, which stung. Percy was a blithering idiot. And the worst one of all, of course, was Ron. At one time, she had thought she had something with Ron, but she was wrong. Whatever closeness they had forged was ruined by his embarrassing dalliance with Lavender Brown. She had thought they were getting past that, though. For the past few weeks, she had felt that they were regaining that feeling of intimacy, creeping a level beyond friendship, but then there was the fight. Ron left, and then... _It_ happened.

Hermione replayed the events of that day in her head several times a day. She knew it wasn't healthy, but her mind couldn't seem to stop. Depending on her mood, the recollection was either dark and terrifying or confusing. The confusion was certainly the worst. While she knew in an objective and logical way that she had not brought the encounter upon herself, her reaction to the dark wizard's body was bitterly consuming. She knew about sex. It had not been her first orgasm. She knew more about her body than she thought she needed to know—the precise anatomy of her reproductive organs, the process of development, the names of each of her bones. But this reaction—this was something she had never thought about before. It was something that, at least up until this point, she did not understand.

"Play it back," she commanded her mind. Her brain obliged, mentally rewinding the day up until the point she felt his hands brush through her hair and wrap around her neck.

He was going to assault her no matter what she had done. And if she fought, it would have hurt, far worse than if she had played such a willing victim. She had to forgive herself. She _deserved_ forgiveness. Given two terrible options, she had made a difficult decision for not just her own good but for the continued survival of her companions.

 _Why did I enjoy his touch, though?_

His kisses had been deceptively gentle. The movements of his hands sent her nerve endings into joyous, maddened frenzies.

In the tent, she traced the path his hands had taken. She bit her lip.

She remembered the fullness. Before this, she had never known that any part of her was empty.

She pressed her legs together. The intensity was delicious.

 _What is in me that makes me want more?_

 _Research. Analyze. Understand._ The best way to learn. Her hands slid down under the covers and cupped themselves between her legs. " _Scabior_ …"

}{}{

At the Snatcher's camp, Scabior's dark blue eyes opened and he sat up, one hand at his wand. _"Hominem Revelio,"_ he muttered, and detected only the forms of those sleeping nearby, as well as Fenrir standing guard at the perimeter. He could have sworn he heard a voice saying his name. _Her_ voice. Merlin, he was going mad. "Cut it out, old man," he growled to himself, shaking his head at his own foolishness. "Get her out of your head. You'll go to the camp in the morning and turn the Mudblood. Turn her in, get the gold. That's the plan."

He eased himself back down and closed his eyes, but instead of finding bliss in sleep, he saw... _lights_. Flickering lights, whirling snow, the golden-brown curls of a small woman in a white nightshirt, writhing against her own hand. She was calling _his_ name while she touched herself.

He opened his eyes. She was gone. Nothing but sky above him. Holding his breath, he closed them again, and in his mind, he saw her.

" _Scabior_ ," the girl moaned, hips rising to meet the ministrations of her delicate fingers.

Scabior's breath came out in a short huff and he felt himself rising with arousal. He unbuttoned his trousers with one hand and rescued himself from the tight constraints of the fabric.

}{}{

Deep in reverie, Hermione closed her eyes—and promptly opened them. For a moment, she had seen him, sprawled in what looked rather suspiciously like a Hello Kitty sleeping bag, one hand over his face and the other gripping the base of his cock.

"What the _fuck?_ "

}{}{

" _What_ the fuck?" Scabior wondered aloud.

"Kitchen chairs," Antoine Casgrove muttered from a sleeping bag several yards away, lost in some unknown dream. "Chocolate chairs and doorknobs made of sugar."

After a moment, Scabior nodded. "Alright, then. Go back to sleep."

"And frosted windows with the _soft_ frosting," Antoine agreed happily. The young man shifted, burrowed his face into his bag, and began to snore lightly.

Scabior closed his eyes. Hermione's eyes were also closed. And in that moment, they somehow saw each other.

}{}{

It had to be some elaborate fantasy her brain was devising to deal with stress, she reasoned. That's what it was. That's _all_ it was.

Her legs tightened. For a minute, she paused. One arm pressed itself flat against her chest in a modicum of privacy. God forbid a vision of her attacker saw her naked breasts. Again.

But then she lowered her hand and once again touched herself. Maybe it would help her get past it. Maybe it would make everything better. Maybe… Maybe it would just feel _really fucking good._

With a sharp breath, she slipped a finger inside of herself.

}{}{

It was magic, he knew it. Not a magic he'd heard of or seen for himself, but somehow, they were connected in a way he didn't understand. When they each closed their eyes, they saw the other. It was something new, unless she hadn't thought of him at all since the day they met. Not an hour had passed without him spending the better portion of it reexamining every memory of her delicious scent and recounting her freckles. Even his dreams had been dedicated to her: in them, wild-haired girls flickered like flames into sight just long enough for him to want them but not to be able to touch them.

He watched her explore herself the way that he had explored her. He touched himself, and gritted his teeth. Just like a dream, even when it was real—he could see, but not touch. The muscles in his palms ached to curve themselves around her breasts.

"Show me," he murmured, and she spread herself open.

}{}{

It wasn't as good this time, but she was learning that "not as good" couldn't mean "wonderful." She had known her nipples were sensitive, but she was pleased to find that the bottom swells of her breasts were equally responsive to touch. Each stroke shimmied down her body and pooled where she needed it most. Her fingers weren't enough, but this wanton exploration was thrilling.

He ran his hands over his cock, twisting gently as he neared the head. In one deft motion, he spit on his thumb and rubbed it firmly against his frenulum. The intersection of head and base was the most sensitive part of him, and he struggled not to moan.

That filthy girl! Did she know what she was doing to him? That little Mudblood, that little slut! That beautiful entity that was thinking about _him_ of all possible things? His arousal was the highest he could remember it being. Fantasy and magical connection jumbled together. He was chasing the wild-haired girls; he was watching the way the dim light slid over her collarbone and highlighted the feature, casting shadows in the hollows of her chest. He reached out for her; she reached for herself. Her hair was pure flame. He joined her, and they furiously coupled in the forest while she cried out that she was his. There was snow everywhere. She struggled to keep her legs from buckling. He came into her, onto her, with her, for her. She laughed, and it was melodic. She cried, but just a little. She came, forcefully and cathartically. The fantasy was gone, and what was left was the girl in the tent a few miles away, slowly closing her legs and turning to her side. Hermione closed her eyes, and then the connection was gone, too.

The difference between the images was clear to him, but he still somehow felt confused.

 _I've got to have her,_ he thought to himself. _In some way or another._

After checking to make sure that the camp was still being guarded, he quickly shuffled several feet over and wiped his sticky hand on the edge of Fenrir's sleeping bag. He pulled a cigarette out of his pants pocket and lit it. Scabior took a pull of the cigarette and leaned against the wall of the tent. He doubted he would get much sleep tonight.

}{}{

Hermione hugged her knees to her chest. She blinked cautiously several times, but didn't see the image of Scabior again. She was experiencing that dirty feeling again, that she was somehow contaminated. Suddenly, the room was too stuffy for her. She felt as though she couldn't breathe.

Pulling a sweater over her nightgown, Hermione shambled out of the tent on unsteady legs. A walk would do her good. Or a trip to the river. _Or a one-way ticket home_ , she added sarcastically. Not that it was possible, of course. To run back home, one requires a home to which to run.

She was barely ten steps from the tent when she saw him—Ron, that is. Her heart fell. Of all the unexpected faces that could beam hopefully at her, his was the second to last she wanted to encounter. In Ronald's hand was a locket—one of the last Horcruxes. It was crumpled and bent, no longer worth anything. She stared at it a moment too long before raising her gaze to her friend's sheepish expression. _So many questions._

Harry asked first. "How did you find us?"

Ron paused and ran his thumb over the Deluminator he clenched in his left hand. "With this. It doesn't just turn off lights. See, Christmas morning, I was sleeping in this little pub, keeping away from Snatchers, and I heard... _it._ The voice."

He looked up and towards Hermione, whose lips were sealed in a firm and unyielding line. " _Your_ voice, Hermione." He didn't notice her hand twitch.

"What exactly did I say?" she demanded, eyes glinting. There were other things she wanted to ask, but couldn't.

 _Why did you have to leave? If you hadn't left, I wouldn't have been wandering around alone—_

 _Why can't you see that I'm hurting? Why can't either of you see that I'm hurting?_

 _Why do I hurt so much?_

 _How can I stop?_

"My name. Just _my_ name. Like a whisper." His face was open and vulnerable. He seemed to be the opposite of the angry, explosive Ronald that had picked petty fights and then left them to the unforgiving winter. He reached a freckled hand out to her.

 _The next time I catch you, I might not let you go._

Hermione jerked her arm back and shook her head derisively. "It doesn't change anything, Ronald Weasley," she spat, and stalked back into the tent, angry and afraid and desperately wanting a friend.


	4. A Pinch of Soul

Chapter 4

A Pinch of Soul

The blond man sat with his fingers embedded in his dirty, lank hair like they too were attached at the root. How could he—why _had_ he… But it was too late, and he had surely doomed _her_ as he had doomed himself and those children. Those poor, innocent children. The world was on their shoulders, and Luna was on his. His only solace was that his dearly departed Livia did not know the suffering of her husband and daughter.

An agonizingly slow _creak_ attracted his attention, and he stood up to see the wooden door to his cell swing open. A wicked-looking man entered, wild hair gathered about his head and tied in a delicate ribbon. His mouth quirked and a smile appeared on his face. He nodded, and unseen captors pulled the door shut. _"Muffliato,"_ he pronounced emphatically, and turned to Xenophilius. Xenophilius had not let the cold of the prison or the damp of the stone walls chill him, but when he saw the unnatural glint of Scabior's blue eyes, he could not help but shiver.

Scabior's smile transformed into a grin. He twirled his wand in hand and then pointed it at Xenophilius. _"Flagrate,"_ he hissed, and fire pirouetted from the tip of the wand to the blond man's chest, carving out words in a jagged font.

 _Traitor._

}{}{

"That bastard! That bloody bastard!" Ron shouted. He formed a fist and drove it towards the bark of the nearest tree. The mistake was discovered immediately, and he sank to the ground, nursing his red knuckles with his mouth. "Hw wood 'e?" he mumbled into bleeding skin.

"How could he?" Harry echoed, shaking his head. "I mean, I understand that they've got Luna, but he could have told us, we could have helped…"

Shaking, Hermione steadied herself by leaning on Harry. Disapparation was difficult enough when she was just transporting herself, but dragging the two boys along with her was exhausting. Despite her commitment to performing well, Apparation was something with which she continually struggled. Anxiety, though helpful when it came to triple-checking papers and remembering exam dates, did not aid in relocating one's body to another place entirely. _Don'tsplinchdon'tsplinchdon'tsplinch._ Her mantra.

While she regained her energy, she considered the events that had just occurred at Luna Lovegood's house, and found that she could not blame Xenophilius for his actions. That wasn't to say that she would have done the same—she would have sacrificed herself a thousand times over before giving up Harry or Ron—but she understood the sense of desperation she detected in Xenophilius's voice. He had lost the only thing he had left, and was rendered a shell of a man snapping desperately at any strand that could make him whole again. To Xenophilius, Luna was the Greater Good. Hermione could find no fault there.

}{}{

Scabior leaned forward and pulled Xenophilius up by his stringy hair. "And I suppose that you thought that the Dark Lord would have swapped one blood traitor for the Mudblood, the Weasel, and Potter? As if they aren't things owed to him already?"

Xenophilius's voice caught in his throat, and he keened uncontrollably. "My daughter! My Luna, I just wanted my Luna!"

Scabior chuckled. "Well she's as good as dead now, thanks to you. As for you... The Dark Lord doesn't appreciate weakness. You had the element of surprise—why didn't you use it?"

"I didn't... I didn't know if I should! My Luna, my—" The man struggled to control his hysteria. "My Luna would not have wanted me to do it. She's as loyal as a Three-Horned Gillysnort... But I had to do it. She's worth it."

"She's worth more than ten of your brats," Scabior muttered to himself.

Xenophilius's eyes darted up towards his captor. His struggle to parse the pronouns in the sentence was almost palpable. "She… Hermione Granger?"

Scabior's head turned sharply towards Xenophilius. The older man was nodding so fervently, it was as if his head were attached to his shoulders by rubber.

"The muggle-born witch! You feel something for the muggle-born, don't you?" He flinched as Scabior darted forward, picking him up by the arms and pinning him to the wall.

"You don't deserve to speak of her!"Scabior growled. "You are a traitor to your daughter's name, to your wife's memory, to the Dark Lord, and to.. _. To her._ "

The blond man bowed his head as best as he could, zealous with confirmation. "You care for the girl, you want her, yes, you do," he babbled, eyes closed. "A nasty old Snatcher, not even good enough to be a Death Eater, obsessed with a muggle-born—"

The eldest Lovegood was abruptly silenced as Scabior released his hands, allowing him to fall to the floor. The younger man stood over him, panting slightly. One hand caught the loop of his belt, following it to the sheath at which his favorite toy, a six-inch blade imbued with Hiskakaj venom, was holstered. The thought of sinking it into the neck of the traitorous scum was appealing. However, even in his rage, Scabior understood that a captive was valuable only while still alive.

Still, the high-pitched keening continued, and Scabior turned to face the broken man.

 _"Obliviate."_

It was time to go back to the Lovegood house. He had felt the traces of her Disapparation earlier. With any luck, there were slivers of her magic left, and he could trace the path she took. He could find her. He _would_ find her.

}{}{

Hermione, Harry, and Ron shared a lackluster dinner consisting of cold biscuits smeared with a too-sweet blackberry jam. Afterwards, Hermione slept. Despite the fact that she had successfully evaded captured only hours before and was now safe, her sleep was restless.

She dreamed of fathers and tea, of waves hitting the shore. She dreamed of death. She dreamed of making Horcruxes on an assembly line, ripping a piece out of her soul for each one that glided smoothly down the belt towards her. The Horcruxes were different things: a toothbrush, a tennis shoe, an old book, a pair of fingernail clippers. Hundreds of senseless things blurred by her. Finally, something new came.

Hermione Granger looked into the eyes of Hermione Granger, who was sitting on the conveyer belt with her hands clasped over her shins. She reached inside herself for a pinch of soul to bestow, and found that there was nothing left.


	5. Crack!

Chapter 5

Crack!

For the first time since they had met seven years earlier, Ron did something nice for Hermione. The tea was far too sweet, but the gesture seemed sincere. Sitting in the area of the tent designated as the kitchen, Hermione smiled and took a sip. "Thanks. I needed this. I'm so sick of this awful winter. It just goes on and on, and once you think it's going to warm up, there's another frost or another four inches of snow."

Ron nodded. "It's great, isn't it? Christmas… Anyway, listen, 'Mione, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

Hermione's eyebrows furrowed and she sighed. It was clear he hadn't been listening to her. "What is it, Ron?"

"Look, I know I wasn't the best friend I could have been the past few days..." At her look, he hastily corrected himself. "Weeks..."

A glare.

"Months... No, years, okay, year. Blimey, Hermione, don't look at me like that... Anyway, just wanted to say that you're, um. Er. _Special._ Yeah, that's it, special. You're a special girl and," he continued, red in the face and pink in the ears, "I've _noticed_. I don't know what we'd do without you. And, well, I was wondering if... _Doyouwannabemygirlfriend?"_

Hermione blinked. Her mouth opened and then closed as she thought of what to say. "Ronald, I'm very flattered that you asked me that, but I don't think that the middle of a war is a good time to start a relationship. There's a lot we have to do and the last thing we need is any sort of distraction."

The boy stared at her blankly.

She sighed and continued. "There are things... going on. I'm trying to work through some things right now, and I'll be fine, but I need time."

"We could just go out a little."

 _Good lord._ "It's just not a good time for me. I'm sorry," she offered.

Ron nodded slowly, his eyebrows creeping up his forehead in an attempt at looking casual. His fingers drummed on the table. "I've been really lonely lately."

"I completely understand. But we can still be here for each other, you know."

Ron seemed _very_ interested in this. "Really?"

"Of course!"

He leaned forward. "Do you want to _be here for me_ while Harry's sleeping?"

Hermione froze. "Pardon?"

"You know," Ron said, shrugging a shoulder towards the room where their friend was asleep. "While he's out. Do a little snogging. Maybe a little spooning. A good amount of—"

"Ronald Weasley!"

"What?" he snorted, belligerent. "Harry has Ginny. Neville has Hannah Abbott. Remus has Tonks. Mum has… Dad," he listed, clearly running out of examples. "I don't have anybody!"

"Yes, but that doesn't mean you should just cozy up with someone you don't want in order to not feel left out!"

"Well, maybe you should be a little bit grateful, Hermione. There are prettier girls out there, definitely _nicer_ ones, and some of them aren't so in love with _books_ that they… That they shrivel up and blow away!" He stuck his fist into the air and pantomimed it exploding, extending his fingers and then wiggling them away in imaginary wind. They both stared at his hand.

"That's… That's not it shriveling up, but that _is_ it blowing away. In the wind, all alone," he explained.

"You're disgusting, Ronald Weasley," Hermione hissed, her eyes filling with tears. In an instant, she was gone, running from the tent at full speed. The flaps of the tent folded quietly back into place.

" _Bitch_ ," Ron muttered, and took a sip of Hermione's tea. " _Oh,_ this is gross."

}{}{

" _Confringo!_ " she shouted, and a large rock shattered into precisely seventy-six pieces. "I gave up school for you!"

Another rock, smaller this time, also exploded to sate Hermione's anger. "My exams! My future!"

She kicked the ground once. It felt wonderful, and she did it again. "I've stolen food!"

She hit a tree with her hand. She was too incensed to feel the pain. "I made my parents forget who I am!"

A third blast from her wand ignited a large tree branch on the ground. Hermione sighed and hurried over to it. With a flourish, she poured water from her wand, which quenched the fire. When she spoke again, she was quiet. "What more do I need to give?"

"Who says you have to give anything?" a voice responded, and Hermione's blood froze in her veins.

"How did you find me?" she asked. She didn't turn to face him.

"I followed the trail of your magic," Scabior replied casually, as if the idea that magic was traceable was common knowledge.

"What do you mean, followed it?"

The Snatcher cocked his head to the side and smiled. _This_ was new. "When you cast a spell, a residue is left behind. If you're very careful and study it closely, you can feel the presence of the witch or wizard who cast it. Magic has a signature, and the bigger the magic you create, the bigger the signature. I was in the area already—that was a hefty Disapparation spell, love. But I'd have to have been blind and deaf to not notice you exploding rocks over here. Not just the sights and sounds, mind you. I can taste it."

Hermione swallowed. She was terrified of this man, but this time, she was armed. He was a good four or five meters away from her, and his wand was at his side. The opportunity to learn something she had never heard of before, however, was intoxicating. "How can you taste it?"

"Well, you can't taste it until you know it's there. Once you know it's there, it's unmistakable. Different spells taste different ways. Some taste like smoke, and others, like apples."

She gave into temptation. "What did my Disapparation spell taste like?"

"Blood," Scabior responded. "Metallic in the mouth—very strong."

Hermione was taken aback. "I… I made something that smelled like blood?"

Scabior considered the young witch carefully. "Blood isn't an inherently bad thing, love."

"Don't call me that. And also, when you cut things, they bleed."

"You can't live without it."

Hermione nodded. "But it's associated with death."

"It's associated with life," he returned carefully. "In more ways than one."

"What's the other… Oh," Hermione responded. She blushed. Harry had seen a tampon of hers once at the bottom of her bag—a clean, unused, packaged tampon—and had nearly run out of the common room. She wasn't used to measured comments regarding the existence of menstruation. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

Suddenly she realized, however, that sometime in the last few minutes, Scabior had come closer to her, and was now barely two meters away.

"Stay back," she warned, and raised her wand. "Don't come any closer."

One corner of the man's mouth twitched upwards. "Have you had any interesting daydreams lately?"

Hermione's mouth tightened.

"Oh, don't be that way. We have a connection, you know. I can feel it. I know that you can't feel out magical energy, but this connection we have isn't exactly subtle." He took a step forward.

"I warned you!" Hermione shouted. Her hand began to shake violently. The tip of the wand quivered. "Leave me alone!"

"I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you. We're meant to be here," Scabior said softly. His eyes danced. He looked like a cat that had just found an unsuspecting bird with which to play, excited and full of dark merriment. "Put the wand down."

"I'll curse you. I'll _curse_ you," Hermione repeated. Scabior took another step forward.

His arms snaked forward slowly, deliberately. Whether or not he would have possessed the speed to strike before a curse could be delivered was unknown, because as he raised his arms, Hermione lowered hers. She hated him. She wished that he were dead. She knew the spells that would make him dead, or at least make him hurt in ways that mirrored the damaged he had dealt to her. They raced through her mind like last chances: _Confringo, Avada Kedavra, Sectumsempra, Crucio._

That terrible warmth was beginning to pool in her stomach. The nearer Scabior came, the more intense it became. She imagined that it was a light, and if she looked down, she would be blinded. That's how bright it felt when Scabior's hands encircled her biceps and his Roman nose grazed her cheek. She gasped, and the Snatcher looked down at her with great pleasure. He was experiencing what was almost a sense of giddiness. He had been right: for whatever reason, this beautiful woman that he knew he did not deserve was helpless to his touch.

Scabior believed in no gods, muggle or magical. He did not believe in miracles. But Scabior was a poor man, even after years of hunting, and this witch was made of gold in every way conceivable.

His fingers separated her jeans from her hips, and pushed down. The denim, along with her underwear, slid down her thighs before halting in a mess of fabric just above her shins. Locked at the knee, she fell backwards, but slowly; Scabior's hands still rested at her lower back, and she hit the ground softly. Her flesh tingled wherever his hands rubbed. He deliberately avoided the area between her legs, stopping short of pubis mons and barely skimming her inner thighs.

Hermione screamed at herself in her mind. _Point your wand at him and say the worst thing you can think of! Kick him! Claw him! Fight him off!_

Scabior began to explore the skin beneath her faded gray sweater. He cupped her breasts roughly, leaving small fingerprints that stood out starkly for a few seconds before fading away. The sweater was pulled over her head, and Hermione found herself bound and naked in front of the most dangerous man she had ever met.

The Snatcher leaned forward and placed his lips on hers.

 _Kill him. Kill him! KILL HIM! He's going to hurt you again! Make him pay for what he did! You're never going to be the same!_

With a snap, she closed her teeth around Scabior's upper lip. The man instinctively pulled away, and when he faced her again nearly half of a minute later, a patch of blood was smeared over the fullest part of the left side of his lip.

"Fuck you," Hermione whispered. Her hand unclenched, and her wand rolled out and onto the ground.

Scabior grinned. "That's what I intended to do in the first place, love."

His lips met hers again, and they shared the taste of blood. It was over in a heartbeat. Hermione found herself flipped over onto her stomach in what seemed like an effortless move. With one hand, Scabior brought her hips towards him so that her face was pressed against the ground. The other hand settled authoritatively at the nape of her neck. Hermione heard the fumbling of a belt and the unzipping of a fabric. For a moment, the head of his cock rubbed against her, searching for entry, and she shivered.

He entered her smoothly, finding little resistance. While not fully aroused, Hermione was slick enough to take him, and Scabior could tell that her excitement was ramping. She let out a low moan as he tested how she felt around him. He buried himself into her as deep as he could go and bent his body over hers in an attempt to further capture her.

"Move forward," he whispered several inches below her right ear.

It took Hermione a moment to understand the request, but she drew her hips forward, essentially pulling Scabior out of herself. That bizarre emptiness returned to her, and she craned her head to look at him. The eroticism of the gesture was shocking, though certainly not unpleasant, and Scabior struggled to maintain a neutral expression. "Now back."

With a gasp, her hips slid back, and she filled herself once more.

Scabior nodded, and Hermione closed her eyes. For a few moments, she slid herself forward and back, impaling and depriving herself with alternating strokes. Her body, which had already begun to lubricate itself, reached a point of excess. The sight of her glistening body caused Scabior's cock to twitch, and he knew that he could no longer hold back.

Reapplying his grip on the back of her neck, he drew himself out of her and then reentered roughly. Hermione called out in shock and pleasure. She tried to draw a large breath, but before she could, she was being thrust into once more. His pounding was brutal and masterful—it was something that, before it had actually happened, Hermione was not sure _could_ happen. But her body, her traitorous body, welcomed the invasion. Her breasts pushed into the earth; her legs felt weak. Still, she needed more. While she had originally attempted to be as quiet as possible, something in her broke loose, and as Scabior crudely fucked her from behind, a descant of moans tore themselves from her throat. Her legs, no longer under her control, splayed themselves more widely and decadently. Despite the strength of the thrusts, her body rose to meet him every time. She still hated him. He was still evil. She was still a victim of forces beyond her control, and yes, she still wanted him dead. But right now, more than that, she wanted him to cocoon her body with his, to fill her completely in ways she was only now beginning to understand, to look at her—to see every square centimeter of her body—and to find ways to use every last bit of it.

With a grunt, Scabior finished inside of her. Even after he was drained of semen, he delivered a few final thrusts as if making sure that he had given himself the final word in a matter neither of them had discussed. He collapsed next to her, massaging his shoulder with one hand.

It took Hermione some time before she had the strength to turn over onto her back. She was incredibly sore, more so even than her first encounter with Scabior. It was somehow oddly satisfying, though the sensation ended on the physical level. Guilt gnawed at her with dull teeth. _How could you let him do this again?_ _How could you have wanted it so badly?_

She waved away a leaf that was in danger of falling on her face. The gesture required a ridiculous amount of effort. "Are you going to turn us in?"

Scabior paused. "I don't know," he said, surprised at his own honesty.

"If you think that… That we're going to sleep together, and I'll keep doing this to keep you from trying to hunt us, you're wrong. This is the last time this will happen. Harry and I… Harry, Ron, and I. We've defeated far more frightening bad guys than you."

"It doesn't depend on whether or not we fuck," Scabior responded bluntly. "Based on the history of our fucking, said fucking will happen no matter what."

 _You bastard,_ she whispered in her head. _You miserable animal._ But it was true. Regardless of how she wanted to feel about him, her attraction to him was relentless, fierce, and unyielding. Even now, sore and thoroughly used, a small, awful part of her wished that Scabior was not done objectifying her. It didn't seem to matter that their previous encounter was completely non-consensual. The experience had awakened some disturbing part of her that wanted—no, that _needed_ —this exquisite, terrible coarseness. She wasn't going to kill him. She couldn't.

If that was the case, though, she considered dolefully, there were better and lesser options. She was painfully reminded of her previous words: _it doesn't have to be like this._

Hermione propped herself up on one shoulder. She traced patterns on Scabior's torso with one trailing fingertip. He watched her, wary.

Her hands slipped down his abdomen and brushed against him. Still a young man, he began to stir.

"It does matter," she murmured. Her left hand wrapped around him. "Do you want to know why?"

Scabior swallowed. Lust began to cloud his vision. The magic all around them—not from the spells Hermione had cast earlier, but the strange association that joined them, left a sweet taste in his mouth. "Why, love?"

Hermione paused. "Let me show you."

And it was that moment that she wrapped the fingers of her right hand around a piece of rock, raised it above her head, and brought it down on Scabior's head with a righteous _crack!_


	6. Scab

Chapter 6

Scab

The boy in the ill-fitting robe, no older than fourteen or fifteen, spat into his palms and tried desperately to tame his wild mane of hair. He launched himself from the wall against which he had been leaning. Calliope Shepperd's laughter bounced off the ceiling and echoed all around her and her group of friends.

"Why do girls always have to be inseparable from their friends?" the boy muttered under his breath before clearing his throat emphatically.

Calliope turned around. Her tiny button nose and wide, light blue eyes captivated him. "What do you want?" she inquired testily. The little nose wrinkled in distaste, and the boy was far too aware of his out-of-control hair and well-worn attire. He nervously fingered his second-hand spellbook.

"Do you think, well, that is, would you like to…." He scanned all of the girls. The anxiety he felt seemed nearly tangible. "Calliope, would you do me the honor of attending the dance with me?"

The girl froze, her eyebrows creeping to her hairline. "Excuse me? Why would you think I'd ever agree to go to the dance with a little scab like you?" Her eyes swept over him, spending a few extra seconds on his overly large ears and untamed hair. "I think I'd rather go to the ball with the giant squid!" The girls tittered and one of Calliope's friends spoke up, smirking. "Alright, you tried. Good job! Now run back to the dungeons like the flobberworm you are, _Scab!_ "

And so he did. He ran back like a flobberworm, if a flobberworm had legs, and launched himself onto his bed, humiliated. "Someday," he thought savagely, "I'll be rich! And have the best clothes and all new books and," he grabbed his hair with both hands, "They'll be sorry for how they treated me."

His roommate entered and paused to look at him. "Merlin, Scabior. You can't let them get to you like that. They're just dumb birds."

The boy looked up, distraught. "You already know? What are they saying?"

"I think everyone knows. Bill Weasley asked her right after you did and she said yes. Serves you right for asking out a Gryffindor."

Scabior hung his head again. "I'll never get her. My old man was right. Like should be with like."

Amycus Carrow sat down on the bed across the room and kicked off his heavy shoes. "Mate, forget about the bint. I have something better to cheer you up. What do you know about the group called the Death Eaters?"

}{}{

He awoke with a headache the size of the Dark Lord's ego. Sickly streams of coagulated blood streaked one side of his head. It felt as if his skull had been split in two, though a quick pat-down of the area proved that he remained in one piece.

As soon as his health was assured, a roiling vitriol flooded his body and soaked itself into his very soul. He staggered to his feet, head snapping left and right as he tried to determine the direction of his witch's flight. After a moment, he locked onto it: a fuzzy, flickering, and barely visible residue more like dust in the air than anything else, pointing due north.

His immediate response was to panic, slapping desperately at his body for his wand. It ended up being on the ground near where he had been laying. He picked up the wand, aimed it at the nearest tree, and _screamed._ A burnt orange light scratched its way out of his wand and enveloped the tree, consuming it in less time than it took for him to put his wand back in the holster with his knife.

"You stupid girl," he hissed. Something in his chest ached. For a moment, he had thought—

 _What would any girl want with a low-rate like you?_ asked a voice inside his mind.

Scabior's pacing stopped. _Because I can protect her._

 _Not if there's nothing from which to protect her but yourself._

The man paused, and then lowered himself. His hand raked the area where blood had run off of his forehead and onto the ground. In his palm, the earth was cold and brittle and a disturbing shade of red so dark, it was nearly black. He spit into his palm and watched his saliva mix with the earth. "There you go," he said softly, considering the mixture. "Mud-blood for the Mudblood."

His hand tilted to the side, and he watched the dirt fall back to the ground, leaving streaks on his skin. A plan was beginning to form.

A few minutes later, Scabior Disapparated.

}{}{

Harry, for all his obsessions with Quidditch and pretty redheaded sixth-years, could detect the negative energy between Ron and Hermione, and he had just enough wisdom and common sense to stay out of it.

Ron burnt the toast intended for their breakfast as Hermione packed her beaded purse, mostly because he spent more time peeking at her than the bread. He hadn't slept at all since she had left. He had been waiting for her, hoping to talk to her once she had calmed down. The boy was sure that she would accept his apology over the bungled proposition. He really did care about her, bushy hair and all. However, when Hermione came back, he found her to be even more upset than before, and hadn't even spoken a word before the tip of her wand was in his face, and she demanded that he keep his mouth shut and leave her alone.

 _Women,_ he thought _. I'll never understand any of them._

"It's getting warmer. That's nice," Ron offered. The olive branch hung in the air.

"This toast is disgusting," Hermione snipped. Ron flinched.

Harry mumbled an excuse about having to use the bathroom, and stepped outside to get away from the tension.

"You know," Ron began, his face beginning to flush. "I didn't mean to—"

" _Help!_ "

It was Harry's voice, Harry's startled cry. The fight was immediately placed on hold, and Hermione and Ron ran from the tent, wands at the ready—and immediately realized that they were surrounded. Hermione's eyes flicked over the dirty men. A red-headed man with soft eyes. Two short, surly men that looked like they could be brothers. Fenrir Greyback. _It's them_ , she realized. _God, I hope they don't remember me._

Scabior was nowhere to be seen, at least, and Hermione's shoulders relaxed. She took a breath. Four wizards. She and her friends could take them easily—after all, they had faced worse odds before and won. And then—

"Hello, pretty."

It took all of her energy to do so, but she turned her head. Centimeters away, his dark blue eyes bore into hers. She could see the vitriol swimming in them, the tense line of his mouth, the way his cheekbones cut away from his face. He was livid, and close, and above all, dangerous.

"'Ere, you wanker, get away from her!" Ron spat, taking Hermione's hand and jerking her towards him. Scabior's eyes glinted without humor. _That tease. She deserves this._

"Now, now, girl. Keep an eye on that one. Your _boyfriend_ will get much worse than that if he doesn't learn to behave himself."

He raised his wand. As if on cue, the outnumbered Golden Trio turned and ran past him. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the ghostly trail of her perfume, and then gestured gracefully, his face alight with the joy of the hunt. "What are you waiting for? _Snatch them!"_

Their pounding footfalls echoed through the forest. Combined with ragged breath, the sounds of escape were the only sounds that they could hear. Hermione's jeans were damp with sweat; her hair billowed behind her, knotting up and snarling. The wind snapped past her face. Every unit of resistance felt monumental. _Just run_ , she told herself. _Run!_

She was so intent on her path that she hadn't noticed that Ron had split from their group. Now only Harry was behind her. An errant tree branch slapped her cheek and left behind a red line, which blossomed with blood.

Ron cried out from somewhere on their left.

If Harry hadn't stopped, Hermione might not have. She didn't know for sure. But Harry, a Gryffindor to the core, had, and so Hermione did, too. She could see the Snatchers emerging from the trees behind them. Quickly, she aimed her wand at Harry and cast a stinging hex.

"Ah!" Harry shouted, and fell to the ground, clutching his head. His trademark scar twisted as large bumps rose and disfigured his face. He moaned as Hermione darted forward, grabbed the glasses off his head, and tossed them away.

When she turned back, she found herself staring at a large, hairy chest. Before she could run, Fenrir Greyback was upon her. Grasping her by the arms, he pinned her against the nearest tree and pressed himself against her. "Delicious girl… What a treat. I do enjoy the _softness_ of the skin."

Hermione stifled a whimper as the werewolf ground his hips against her stomach. It was difficult to breathe, not just because of the pressure, but his odor. He smelled like wet dog, rotten food, old sweat, burnt wood.

A stunned Ronald Weasley was dragged over by Scabior and the redheaded Snatcher. His body lolled limply on the ground, but there seemed to be no other damage.

Hermione did her best to catch Scabior's eye. She finally did, but he just silently returned the gaze. As she tried to think of what she could possibly say to get them out of this mess, the man turned away.

"And who do we have here? What's your name, ugly?"

"Uh... Dudley. Vernon Dudley." Harry's face, distorted and monstrous, warped his words, and they came out in a thick grunt surprisingly similar to his cousin's voice.

Fenrir roughly jabbed one hand under Hermione's blouse, raking his fingernails over one of her breasts. She cried out, and Scabior's eyes glinted. "That's enough!" he snapped. "Not until we know who they are."

 _I'm going to have to punish him later,_ he told himself. _I want to scare her, not pass her off to that beast. What use is she to me in shreds?_

Fenrir gave him an incredulous look. "They ran away from us. They have something to hide. And that one!" He pointed one gnarled and hair-covered finger at Ron. "It looks like one o' them _Weasleys,_ " he growled.

Scabior looked at Hermione. Her bright eyes latched onto his and he stared, fascinated, as a tear rolled down her cheek. She seemed to be pleading with him, begging him with those incredible, gold-speckled eyes.

"Please," she whispered. Fenrir Greyback's long, pointed tongue slipped from his mouth, and he began to trace the line that the tree branch had made on Hermione's face.

 _Alright_ , Scabior decided, feeling proud of himself. _The point has been made. She knows now what can happen without me around._

"You know what, Greyback," he said. "I think there is a Dudley at the ministry. One of us. You, boy. Are you related to him?"

Harry nodded, too terrified to speak. Hermione sagged in Fenrir's arms, relief flooding her body. Scabior was going to let them go. And then—

"Hey! Boss! I found his glasses!" Antoine Casgrove bounded to them, the famous rounded spectacles of Harry Potter in his hand. He pushed the bangs out of Harry's swollen face and there it was, in all its twisted glory: a jagged, vaguely lightening-shaped scar. "It's them!" he said excitedly. "We found 'em!"

Scabior's stomach knotted in displeasure. This was _not_ part of the plan. There was no way he could let them go now. A girl, a red-head, and a scarred, bespectacled boy? Of course it was them. Even Fenrir wasn't that stupid.

He had no intention of fighting his fellow Snatchers—this was _his_ team; killing them would simply weaken him, and he was not keen on destroying his possessions, anyway. Obviously, getting killed was not a solution, either. A sacrifice had to be made. He looked at the girl. She was shaking. _Ah, well. It was good while it lasted. A pile of gold will be a safer thing to keep, anyway._

He lowered his wand. "To the manor, then."


	7. Fuck You And Your Stupid, Poofy Hair

**Hey, guys! I wanted to thank you for the PMs and reviews I got since I started reposting. I really appreciate it. It's hard editing some of this old writing, and your reviews encourage me to do it faster and better, so please feel free to review and tell me what you like/don't like, what's working/not working, thoughts, comments, critiques, and more! Thanks!**

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Chapter 7

Fuck You And Your Stupid, Poofy Hair

Hermione opened her eyes and then immediately closed them. It took her a moment to adjust. The light in the deplorable building was dim, but far too bright for an only recently conscious person to take in comfortably. Wavering streams of sunlight filtered in through dirt-smeared leaded windows. A tall, still man with silvery-blond hair silently peered at her. Lucius Malfoy, once polished and dignified, stifled a cough with his left fist. Hermione could not help but notice that the hem on the left arm of his robes was in some advanced stage of fragmentation. The man looked as though he had aged ten years since she had last seen him at the Ministry of Magic. _Not that I look much better,_ she mused. She was all too aware of every bead of sweat on her forehead, dried blood from the tree branch caking the side of her face and flaking away onto a worn, dirty sweater. Even so, when she caught him watching, Hermione boldly raked her eyes over him, taking in his worn face and disheveled appearance. _I'm glad you're suffering._ The thought surprised her, and she turned her head to shake off the streak of nastiness.

Bellatrix Lestrange, the only woman alive with hair less manageable than her own, was in what seemed to be a huddled conference with Draco Malfoy. Hermione couldn't hear what was being whispered, but she saw Draco jerk his head from side to side, shoulders squared. She tried to shift her leg, which had fallen asleep, but let out a small whimper as a sharp edge of the rough-hewn floor dragged across her skin.

Bellatrix turned. A grin, sharp and brimming with eerie joy, spread across her face. "Ah! So the little Mudblood is awake. Perfect timing!"

It took enormous effort to tear her eyes away from the older woman. Without meaning to, she glanced around the manor, searching for Scabior. She didn't see him, only a puffy, disoriented Harry with fingernail marks on his face, and a petrified Ron clinging to Harry as if Harry were a rather large chocolate bar. She swallowed. She and her friends had found themselves in dire situations, but no one knew where they were. There was no one to save them, if they could not save themselves.

"Now," Bellatrix purred, "The Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Die, the least-wanted pup in the litter, and Potter's muggle slut…" She smiled wickedly at Hermione, who shrunk back. "Are all in _my_ grasp. The Dark Lord will be _most_ pleased, don't you think?"

"And you'll remember who caught her, will ya?" barked Fenrir, his hackles raising.

"Of course," Bellatrix murmured. "It was the stinking, wet _werewolf_ who revels in his own filth." Fenrir growled, but backed away when Bellatrix raised her wand.

"Now go! Get! Shoo, dog!" she called, and the werewolf stalked out of the building, muttering. The two Snatchers that looked like brothers walked into the hall of the manor and Disapparated with a sharp crack, off to celebrate the upcoming bounty.

" _Now._ I think that before our master is summoned, we should fill out a... full report. Mudblood! I think it's time for a little chat, woman to woman!" Hermione shrieked as Bellatrix grabbed her by the legs and dragged her towards the center of the dilapidated room.

"Let her go!" Ron cried. "You bitch, you miserable old bitch—"

But Bellatrix only cocked her head to the side and smiled crookedly. "Good-bye, boys." With that, she turned to Hermione. _"Crucio."_

The last thing Hermione heard before she lost herself in the waves of excruciating pain was Ron screaming, _"No! You can have me! Keep me!"_

}{}{

Scabior did not move or speak as Antoine Casgrove shuffled up beside him, all long legs and oversized feet, and perched alongside him on the stoop. Together, they watched the smoke from Scabior's cigarette wind and curl its way into the sky, where it disappeared amongst the gray. The ash from the cigarette hadn't been flicked away, and a thin ring of burning paper curled closer to Scabior's fingers by the second.

"I seen the way you look at her, boss," Antoine said. "You don't look at strangers like that."

Scabior grunted noncommittally.

"An' I can't help but notice that she looks a mite like that Penelope girl you, uh, _killed._ Minus the blood an' dirt, of course."

"What of it?" the older man replied, his mouth twisting into a grimace.

"Well, nothin' of it, really. If you knew her, if she was that girl you _said_ you killed, I'd have to think _why_ you'd say she was dead if she wasn't. An' I'd think it was because you were protectin' her or somethin' like that. An' then I'd wonder why you were lettin' her get all torn up by someone I _know_ neither of us got a likin' for, because that wouldn't make any kind of sense."

Scabior exhaled and turned to his subordinate. "I suppose it's a good thing that she _isn't_ the girl I killed and thatI'm _not_ protecting her and that I don't give _one fiery shit_ what Bellatrix is doing to her in there, correct?"

Antoine slowly nodded. "Okay, but…"

" _What?_ "

"Well," Antoine began carefully. "Sayin' she _was_ the witch you said you killed and didn't, and sayin' you _were_ protectin' her, and sayin' you _did_ give a fiery shit about what's happenin' to her right now… I think it would be worthy of note that she hasn't given you up yet."

The two men looked at each other. The younger paused. "If she was gonna… Bellatrix would be out here right now instead of in there. But she isn't."

From deep inside the manor, an unholy scream pierced the air. Antoine placed his hands on his pointed knees and hauled himself to his feet. "Just speculatin', anyway. I gotta pee. Enjoy your ciggy-rope." His hands found their ways into the pockets of the man's faded trousers. Chin down and dirty strands of hair covering his face, Antoine ambled away.

"Cigarette, you idiot," Scabior corrected absently, but he was already alone. " _Fuck!_ " The ring of fire had finally burnt the remaining portion of the cigarette to its nub, and a section of the man's thumb and forefinger with it. He dropped it to the ground, slamming the heel of his boot onto it once, twice, three times. Four. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

He could hear her screaming. He could barely make out her words. The words he could parse were distinguishable only because he'd heard their refrain so many times before. _Please stop. Stop hurting me._

He had caused those words so many times, seen them dribble out of so many half-slack mouths. Eyes already deadening. Nothing new, nothing special.

"She doesn't want you," he said aloud. "She wants that boy."

 _She_ _howled._

"She thinks you're ugly. Thinks you're worthless. Thinks you're a scab."

" _Stop! Oh God! Oh God, please—"_

He thought, somewhat unexpectedly, of Calliope Shepperd. He hadn't thought of her in years, and suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, she was haunting him. His first task as a Death Eater was to punish her, and he had. The order from the Dark Lord, once completed, was what merited him his Mark. Married right after graduating, Calliope had been working in a little charms shop part-time. Scabior made short work of her husband, who had barely fought back. Calliope, however, hung on long enough for Scabior's excitement to sour in his stomach. The last moans, the moans of the soon-to-be-dead, were the worst: low and guttural, lacking in self-consciousness or self-awareness. Shortly after he first heard those horrifying sounds, he executed the woman who had once rejected his advances. Afterwards, he washed himself in her bathroom sink for nearly ten minutes, rubbing his hands together until the skin was blistered and raw.

 _Deep from her chest, a keening began._

He raised his head. He felt sick. His stomach twisted. Hermione Granger was dying.

"Fuck you," he cursed into the air. "Fuck you and your stupid, poofy hair."

}{}{

With that, he sprung to his feet and abruptly turned. He ran up the stairs two at a time, dirt and bits of dead leaves flaking off from his leather jacket and spiraling away.

While undergoing intense physical torture, Hermione Granger's brain went rather inexplicably to her childhood. The woman sprung from one reality to the other: in the first, she sprawled helplessly on a dirty, wooden floor while a madwoman carved her mind into pieces with every wand flick. In the other, she was five again, or six, perhaps, and her father was reading to her from _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland._ The alternate reality was the more refreshing, and Hermione clung to it with every ounce of strength she had left. With all her might, she sunk into it, losing herself in a world in which she would not divulge answers better left unsaid, or give Bellatrix Lestrange any additional satisfaction.

The book, a faded green print that she had selected in a used book store several weeks earlier based on its illustration of a girl swimming in playing cards, was already shaping up to be less than beloved. Hermione wasn't a fan of all the nonsense in the book. The adventures seemed more nightmarish than whimsical, and Alice was a very silly protagonist.

"But why did she follow the rabbit in the first place?" she asked her father, who favored her with a small smile. She had interrupted him mid-sentence, but in the Granger household, questions were welcomed, not eschewed.

"Wouldn't you have followed him?"

"No!" the child exclaimed haughtily. "Of course not! She should know better than to go chasing _weird_ animals."

"Perhaps Alice didn't have a choice," Kenneth Granger offered, raising his eyebrows.

"Why wouldn't she have a choice?"

"The story wouldn't exist without Alice following the rabbit. If you want a story about what happens when you fall down a rabbit hole, you need a character that follows the rabbit."

Hermione crossed her tiny arms over her chest. "I don't see why we need stories about people who fall down rabbit holes, then. I don't see why anyone would want to."

Kenneth's smile faded slightly. "Sometimes we don't have a choice about that, either."

She felt wet. Or was it cold? Or was it hot? She couldn't tell. She tried to focus on the memory of her childhood, but she was slowly being extracted from its warmth. _Come on dad, turn the page. Tell me what happens next._

God, it hurt so much. She had read about it. She had seen it. But she had never experienced the Cruciatus Curse herself. It made the pain she felt her first time with Scabior dull in comparison, and nothing else she had ever felt came even close. Her head spun.

 _Lether go. Now. Youheardme you psycho pathicbitch._

At the sound of the far-away voice, Hermione's mind loosened its grip on the memory. The pain sharpened, and her breath hitched.

 _Sorrybutthisones mine._

 _I am,_ Hermione thought drowsily to herself. _I_ am _yours._ _Get me out of here, and I'll be anything you want._

}{}{

"Let her go. _Now."_

Bellatrix looked up to see a jet-black wand pointed at the space where her heart would have been, had she possessed one.

"You heard me, you psychopathic bitch."

For a moment, Bellatrix seemed shock. Her mouth opened and her eyes widened. The reaction lasted only seconds, however, before the corners of her lips twitched upwards. "Really? The Mudblood _?_ You're throwing _everything_ away for thisMudblood _?_ "

Scabior's expression darkened. He was outnumbered, but there was no way around it. He had stormed into the manor in a fit of blind passion, not expecting to see Malfoy or his sniffling son still there, the two hunkered down in a corner and watching the destruction of Hermione Granger.

Lucius slowly rose, wand out and aimed at Scabior. "What are you doing, Snatcher?" he barked. The disdain in his voice was obvious.

Scabior straightened his shoulders. Underneath the material of his jacket, he was subtly stretching his arms, preparing for the inevitable duel. "Sorry, but this one's mine."

As Lucius opened his mouth to speak, Scabior suddenly launched himself forward, twisting his body as he dodged behind Bellatrix. A green jet of light shot out of his wand and struck its target. The elder Malfoy fell backwards without a sound.

Draco, his face unnaturally flushed, charged forward in a surprising surge of courage (or lapse in rational thought); he narrowly avoided another flash of emerald as a curse cast by Bellatrix arced across the room and split messily through the tissue of Scabior's right shoulder. Before Draco had a chance to contribute to the carnage, the Slytherin tripped over his own robes and smacked headfirst onto the rough-hewn floor of the parlor, blood pouring from what seemed to be a newly broken nose. Struck dumb, the boy sat up, fingering his swiftly swelling face with confusion and awe.

Bellatrix reeled as a streak of light sailed past her and found purchase in a marble bust of some long-dead Malfoy. The statue exploded, showering the room with a hail of stone. Besides the violent shivering of Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy's small cries of pain, the room was suddenly silent. Blood curved over the swell of Scabior's arm and trickled downwards in fat, red bands. Bellatrix Lestrange, already somewhat disheveled, was positively fearsome in her vicious disarray: wild tendrils of hair stood out from her head at all angles, and her slight frame heaved as her shriveled lungs clamored for breath. The witch and the wizard eyed each other, one brimming with rage, the other with determination. Both of them buzzed with at least a small amount of excitement. The sounds of their breath settled over the now-still room as they faced each other down, wands in hand.

A slight crunching noise interrupted the standoff, and they each turned their heads just enough to keep eyes both on each other and the newcomer.

Antoine, wand out, glanced between the two most dangerous people he knew. "I knew you were lyin' to me," he muttered to Scabior. "I'm not stupid, you know."

Bellatrix lowered her shoulders, and her posture became more relaxed. She turned her head back to face Scabior. "As fun as this was, you little worm, it's over now. Drop your wand. I could kill you now, of course, but I think that the Dark Lord would prefer you alive."

"Antoine?" Scabior ventured, his eyes fixed on Bellatrix's manic grin. "Kill the bitch."

The woman laughed airily. "Snatcher, you slay me! He may be part of your little band of troublemakers, but Antoine would never betray _me._ I'm all he's got left." She pouted, then, pursing her lips in an exaggerated frown.

"That's right," Antoine said softly. "Boss, drop the wand."

Instead, Scabior began to raise his hand. Bellatrix followed suit. While nearly out of breath, she was largely uninjured, and her mouth had just begun to form the words of her curse as Scabior's hand was still at the level of his waist.

 _"Stupefy!_ " Antoine shouted. Bellatrix crumpled to the floor, thin, spindly, and spider-like.

Scabior turned, speechless.

Antoine shrugged. "I can't murder the woman who raised me."

"You're a horrible subordinate," Scabior replied. "Thanks, though."

His tone was light, but he had to admit to himself that he was surprised. He had always been friendly with Antoine—far more than with any other Snatcher in the group—but to be chosen over Bellatrix Lestrange was more than what he had expected. In his circle, loyalty was to the strongest ally. Between that and family ties, he knew he should have been the one knocked unconscious, not Bellatrix. He didn't understand the choice that Antoine Casgrove had made. In fact, he didn't quite understand his own choice to have intervened.

But then he leaned forward, getting down onto one knee as he ran his left hand over Hermione's cheek. His fingers trailed into her soft, chestnut hair. Slowly, the girl opened her eyes, and their gazes met. And just like that, it suddenly occurred to Scabior that he never really had a choice in the first place.

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 **Now that most of the canon Scabior moments from the movie are out of the way, the plot's going to alter dramatically and become rather AU. Just letting everybody know. The adventure begins!**


	8. A Web, A War, A Way

**I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to post this. These chapters now were super rough and full of holes and mistakes, and it took forever to fix it enough to post it. Every time I received a review though, I went back to it and worked for a few hours, so thank you for reviewing. Please, please, please review: it makes my day and encourages me to keep going. Thank you guys so much for reading!**

Chapter 8

A Web, A War, A Way

Scabior regarded Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley with an expression of distaste. They gaped back at him, but did not—could not—speak: cursed with complete body binds, they sprawled, frozen and awkward, in a small heap roughly ten meters away from their captor, eyes darting furiously in their sockets. The reason why they were alive laid huddled an arm's length from Scabior. Bruised, bleeding, but alive, Hermione Granger breathed shallowly on the forest floor.

The Death Eater nodded. "Alright, let's try this again. I know that you must be confused about why I captured you and then allowed you to escape. It's because of your little friend, Hermione. We're… We're _intimate._ "

The boys blinked.

"Ah, fuck it. _Obliviate!_ Now, where were we… Alright, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, you must be confused. I will explain as to why I rescued you two idiots. It's only because of Hermione—because we've become lovers."

He paused, considering the two boys frozen on the ground. "Never mind; I've told it badly. _Obliviate!_ "

"Several weeks ago, I stood outside your tent and could have killed you, but I didn't, because Hermione and I had sex earlier, and it was excellent. Oh, fuck. _"_

He pointed his wand at the boys and sighed.

}{}{

It was the chirps and trills of starlings that drew Hermione back into consciousness. The forest floor, comforting in its familiarity, was cool beneath her skin. She rose, slowly, pushing her mop of hair out of her face. Her arms ached. She felt as though she had just walked through fire. Looking down, she froze. She held out her arm, pale white against the ground. _Mudblood._ Her fingers trembled.

"Hello, love."

She flinched, raising her eyes to the source of the sound. "What—what happened?"

A smug grin spread across Scabior's face. "You didn't miss much. I decided that I wasn't ready to hand you in just yet."

Hermione stood. She picked her wand up off of the ground. Her legs shook as if they were barely able to hold her. She noticed that Scabior, arms crossed over his chest, seemed, despite the arrogance in his expression, somehow unsure of himself. "You turned us in."

Scabior shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "I did."

" _You. Turned. Us. In."_

At this, Scabior possessed the grace to look somewhat worried. He raised his hands in the air as Hermione stalked towards him, shedding twigs and scraps of leaves in her wake. "And I also got you out."

"You turned us in, you bastard!" Hermione shouted. Furious, she acted instinctively. Her right fist connected with the man's cheek. He reeled backwards, eyes wide.

"And I got you back out!"

"You disgusting—" She struck again, this time landing solidly on Scabior's collar bone. "You _repulsive—"_ Her fingers grasped the lapels of his jacket and she leaned forward. "You _horrible, horrible_ man. _I_ could have died. My _friends_ could have died. My… Where are they? Where are they?"

Scabior was suddenly grateful that he hadn't acted on his instincts and left the boys in the manor. "I got them out. I got them out _first,_ " he lied smoothly. "You and your friends were never in any real danger."

The young witch gaped. She lowered her head, which ached miserably. The confusion was overwhelming. "Then why… Why did you do it?"

"I would think that obvious," he murmured. His own head dipped. Slowly, as if asking for permission, he pressed his lips against hers. Receiving no response, he paused. "Kiss me," Scabior commanded softly. "That's all you need to do right now. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Hermione knew that what the Death Eater said was true. If she fought now, weak and disoriented and unsure of her situation, she could die. Harry and Ron could die, and the war would be lost. And if she succumbed to his advances, well… She remembered what he said about sensing magic. There was so much that he could teach her. There was so much that she could learn.

And so she returned the kiss. When Scabior's arms wrapped around her waist and pushed his body into hers, she did not struggle. She allowed him to coax her legs apart as he leaned into her body. Just as she was beginning to shiver from his wandering kisses, a noise that sounded rather like a muffled grunt caught her attention. She turned around and immediately flushed red. Harry and Ron, who were just beginning to struggle out of their body binds and who were propped up on dirty elbows, gaped. Their horror was apparent.

Within two seconds, her wand was aimed at her friends. She opened her mouth to speak—

"You might not want to do that," Scabior pointed out. "They've already been—"

" _Obliviate!_ " Hermione yelled. The boys fell over, silly smiles plastered on their faces.

"— _Obliviated_ seven times."

}{}{

The boys were out cold. Outside of the tent, Antoine was on patrol. The day, now mellow, was becoming night, and above the tree line, streaks of fuchsia and amber swirled and faded into the night sky.

Hermione's feet dangled over the edge of her bed. The tips of her toes barely touched the tent floor. She watched Scabior prowl from one part of the room to the other, rummaging through her things with dirty hands, resembling a raccoon seeking scraps.

"Scabior."

The Death Eater opened the drawer on her nightstand and retrieved after a brief moment of pawing a small picture frame. He raised it to the level of his face and squinted. "These are your parents."

"No," Hermione replied hoarsely.

"Yes."

" _No._ "

"You've got her eyes and his chin. Good luck, there. You wouldn't want _his_ eyes and _her_ chin."

"What are you doing?"

Scabior looked up. His gaze traced the fluid lines of her body. "I want to know you better."

The canvas walls shuddered under a sudden torrential wind. Soon, Harry and Ron would awaken. Events would require explanation. Problems would need resolved. Hermione plucked a small clump of dirt from the leg of her jeans. "Then ask me. Don't go through my things."

With exaggerated motion, Scabior placed the frame back into the drawer and slid it out of sight. Her parents, each wearing an ill-fitting sweater, aiming conservative smiles at an unseen photographer, disappeared into the nightstand. He felt as though he had captured some little piece of the girl: The invasion thrilled him completely, and his cock stirred. He needed more of her. _Should I take her now?_ he wondered. _Should I make her beg for me?_

In a small way of which he wasn't fully aware, Scabior felt that with each secret he could discover, every detail he could extract from her, he was that much closer to owning the girl completely. "Let me look at you," he finally replied.

He approached her, molasses-slow, and bent over, crooked. His hands wrapped around each end of her jawbone.

Hermione stiffened, her heart beating in sharp staccato. Her eyes closed, and she waited to feel the surprisingly sweet touch of his lips. The contact never arrived, though, and her eyes fluttered open. Inches away, Scabior regarded her with determination. His gaze raked over every plane of her face, the faint lines threaded throughout her lower lip, the clean definition in the bridge of her nose. His thumb rubbed small circles on either side of her neck, which reddened slightly under the ministrations. He sought out flaws, and discovered every one, and found himself intoxicated by her imperfection. A thought flitted into his mind—that he would do anything for this girl, if she only asked—but just as quickly was crushed as though by a fist. The deep-set fears and insecurities that formed Scabior wriggled uncomfortably, like maggots in his bones, and his breath caught in his chest. _Control._ That's what he needed. It's what he needed to _do._ He needed to control her—and himself.

He thrust his hands forward, sending Hermione tumbling to the bed. The girl yelped, but he folded himself over her, pinning her down with his arms and legs.

Hermione instinctively struggled, but stopped as Scabior's lips pressed against her right ear "What are you doing?" she gasped.

"There are more of us than you know," he whispered in response. "For every little Draco Malfoy you strike down, there is a Lucius and Narcissa. There are cousins, uncles, aunties Bellatrix, friends. We're a web, and you've been choosing poor strings to pluck."

Now completely still, Hermione returned Scabior's gaze, eyes wide. For a moment, the only sound in the tent was their combined breath.

With one hand, Scabior stroked Hermione's hair, his movements agonizingly slow. "That can change, though. You can learn where the web is weak. What parts and pieces, while important, won't be missed until it's too late."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, love, that you're not going to win this war. You're outnumbered, and outmatched. You stun when you should kill; you jinx when you should hex. You need help. You need _me._ You can't do this without me."

Hermione swallowed. "How could I ever trust you?"

Scabior possessed no answer to this. Perhaps it was because his loyalties, however much they were worth, were for sale, and the girl's body was suitable tender for his services. Perhaps it was because he felt no deep, abiding devotion to anyone or anything in particular. Perhaps he was merely bored with his life and desired a challenge. He said none of these things, however.

"I'd like to please you," he responded at last. It was certainly an ambiguous statement, and he was somewhat surprised at his own candor. It was tinged with what felt uncomfortably like truth, like promise, and his mouth tightened.

The young witch nodded slowly. She felt as though she had a quill in hand, ready to sign a contract with the devil. Her earlier thoughts returned to her, heady and thick with promise: there was so much she could learn from him. It was more than that, though. If he was right—if he could and would help them cut off Voldemort's resources and support where they were least expected to strike—this war could be won. Harry and Ron would be safe. Her parents' identities could be restored. The world would brim with death, yes, but then the chaos would recede, leaving behind a new order, a better order: a place, perhaps, where _Death Eater_ was widely synonymous with _Nazi_ , in which tolerance could be widespread, and the wizarding world could heal.

Her decision—if it could be called that—made, she raised her face to meet his; their lips connected almost tenderly. When her nightgown was slid up past her thighs by rough and experienced hands, she did not resist. His fingers found her and delved within her. Her body responded sweetly and with vigor, and when Scabior entered her minutes later, he did so smoothly. His movements slowed momentarily when Hermione wrapped her arms around his torso, tracing invisible patterns on his back with her fingertips. Unbidden, her thighs parted even further, and she threaded her legs around his own, allowing him to explore her to his satisfaction. The fervor of their kisses increased as Scabior's thrusts quickened. The blush at Hermione's neck spread and flourished across her chest, her stomach, her thighs, painting her a luscious shade of pink.

When every thought had been chased out of her mind, it happened: a brightness bloomed inside of her and seeped into every limb and extremity. Slick skin sticking to both bed and man, she shuddered with orgasm, tensing every available muscle. Her nails dug painfully into her partner's back. Over her, Scabior grunted, almost growling with bestial pleasure as he emptied himself into her. His breath streamed out of his mouth in a sharp hiss as he pulled out of her, leaving behind the twisted figure of his panting lover.

For a long moment, they stared at one another, unsure of what to do now that the act was completed. Seeing no conveniently placed rocks, however, Scabior allowed himself to sink back down into the bed. As if it had somehow been coordinated, Hermione turned onto her side as Scabior's strong arms snaked around her. She allowed the weight of her head, which suddenly seemed incredibly heavy, to relax completely atop the Death Eater's bicep.

The veil of sleep came swiftly. Just before she gave in, Hermione spoke. "How am I going to explain this to them?" she asked in a drowsy voice.

"Does it require much explanation?"

The girl nodded against his chest. Tendrils of her untamed hair tickled Scabior's skin, though he gave no sign of this.

"Well then," he said quietly, "I'll tell them. Just rest for now."

But Hermione was already asleep, her breathing deep and slow. For a long time, Scabior listened to the music made by her soft exhalation—it could have been twenty minutes or an hour, he wasn't sure. His fingers traced meridian lines up and down her frame, exploring his prize.

When he finally reached her forearm, he paused. Here, smooth skin guarded only by peach fuzz turned jagged, sharp. He peered at the area, and clenched his jaw as he saw the carved words of Bellatrix Lestrange. Deep inside of him, a fury began to boil. He briefly entertained the thought of charging back into the Manor—or wherever that bitch was hiding out now—and separating Bellatrix's head from her neck.

But at that moment, Hermione shivered in her sleep, pushing her form against his in pursuit of warmth. And Scabior found that, at least for now, vengeance could wait: his witch was cold. He drew the blanket over them both, tucking its edges underneath the girl. Lastly, he drew his legs around her, covering her as best he could. He would not sleep that night: there was too much on his mind, too many plans to make, too many changes to consider and account for. He did not move, though: for the next few hours, he curled around Hermione Granger like a dragon protecting its treasure, planning a war.


End file.
